


soldiers

by cestmabiologie



Category: Orphan Black
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Gen, sad soccercop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 16:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cestmabiologie/pseuds/cestmabiologie
Summary: If this goes wrong again, will you pretend that you know?Beth's having a bad night and finds herself at Alison's.





	

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: alcohol

**I.**

You catch yourself at the tail-end of a bad shift about to become a bender and you realize that your sorry ass doesn’t want to be alone tonight.

_What are you going to do about it, Childs?_

You’re going to go through the list of people you might call and realize that you don’t want to call any of them. That’s what. They’ll all have questions that you don’t want to answer (that you don’t trust yourself not to answer and that you can’t answer if you have any hope of keeping people safe).

And that’s why you find yourself driving over to Alison’s place without the calling-first part. Without the checking-in-before-showing-up-unannounced-and-risking-discovery part. You park a street over and cut through the backyard, like she always reminds you to do when you visit.

At least you do that.

You freeze up when the automatic lights click on and again when you can’t decide whether to tap on the glass or knock or just break in. Throw pebbles at the upstairs window like you’re in some damned John Hughes movie? Does that actually happen in any John Hughes movie? You’re still clinging by fingertips to this thought when a curtain shifts, a light turns on inside, and Alison unlocks and slides open the door.

“Hey,” you manage. Suddenly this is embarrassing. “I’m sorry. It’s late.”

“Oh no! It’s really not!” though she’s in her flannels and a bathrobe and clearly has been for a while. She doesn’t move from the doorway.

She doesn’t want you here. This was a mistake. Her family could be home. People could be watching. You could be risking everything just because you can’t stand to be in your own apartment tonight.

Maybe she senses this, or maybe it’s just her hosting impulses kicking in, but she doesn’t turn you away.

**II.**

The yellow walls are more jarring than you remember. You remember sunshine. Tonight it’s an attack.

“I would have made something,” Alison says.“Have you eaten? I could have defrosted a lasagna if I’d known you were coming.” There it is: what you should have done. She’s just playing the part of good hostess and not saying it outright. Next time, you tell yourself, you’ll call ahead of time. You’ll be a real friend and not just someone who needs.

You don’t say anything and she comes back with a box of crackers and a tray of dessert squares. She comes back with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

**III.**

You like Alison because she always makes a point of not noticing what you’ve done to yourself. You like her because she thinks you’re this sort of hero even when she must clearly see that you’re failing. 

Like somehow you can be both.

It’s like when you drink with a date and kissing tastes like nothing. Because if two tongues taste like beer the taste gets cancelled out. (Except you always notice when Alison has had to take the edge off and noticing makes you feel naked.) Or maybe you taste it and it doesn’t matter. Or maybe you tasted it but you don’t remember. Or

She’s giggling into her wineglass.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she shakes her head, and her ponytail swishes and flicks.

“Just imagine: I could have been a cop.”

You try to picture it and you almost-but-not-quite-can. You try picturing yourself, _Detective Elizabeth Childs_ , and you almost-but-not-quite-can.

“I could have been the proud owner of the entire collection of _Hip Hop Abs_ on DVD.”

It wasn’t that funny but you’re both laughing the kind of laugh that finds you gasping and hurts like a knife between your ribs. Alison doesn’t shush you like she usually does, like the neighbours might somehow hear. Like they might somehow discover.

You’re both on your second glass of wine. The food is untouched. Dessert squares make your teeth hurt.

**IV.**

“Can you feel that?” You tap the end of her nose.

“Nope.” 

“Me neither.” You tap your own nose as if to prove a point. Her smile is so different from your own. It’s a good smile. 

You almost suggest cracking open another bottle. She would go for it. You’d polish off another bottle, easy, and this night would tip out of this warm fuzz into a darker place. _Easy_. You tell yourself it wouldn’t be the same place you’d probably be if you’d stayed home tonight. But it would be. Maybe it’d be different with someone else.

Alison taps you on the nose, sloppily and too hard.

“Hey—”

“I thought you were numb,” she said.

“Yeah, well I felt _that_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please comment and/or kudos if you enjoyed!


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